


Coma's Girl

by DarthFucamus



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Fingering, Music, Smutember 2017, smutember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 10:23:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12033933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthFucamus/pseuds/DarthFucamus
Summary: Coma and Reader celebrate with the war boys in a post-Joe Citadel-----I knocked this Smutember challenge out in a few hours, but I had fun with it :) the Coma Doof doesn't get as much love as he deserves.





	Coma's Girl

##  **Smutember Day 8: Exhibitionism**

**Fandom: Mad Max: Fury Road**

**Pairing: Coma the Doof Warrior/female reader (an OC of mine written in 2nd person for this prompt)**

**Explicit.**

 

* * *

 

 

Gripping his axe in one hand during the drum break in the song, Coma peers down at you with his over-wide crooked grin, as if he can see you and pick you out in the crowd. But then, he always seems to know where you are in a room, even when you think you’re being quiet. It doesn't hurt that you've always managed to position yourself at the front of the stage.

The drummers are pounding a hard rhythm, sweat flinging from their dreadlocked masks, and it feels like a countdown, or a heartbeat rising in anticipation. The dense crowd of the war boys gathered in front of the Doofmobile for the show are seething with excitement. The Wretched, no longer outcast as they were before the Fall, are mingled with the white-bodied warriors. Some have already paired off, fucking on the ground, because everyone’s trashed on Ace’s special brew and the pups are all in bed. This rager is for the adults only.

Coma leans forward, pulling his bungees taut, and his empty hand brushes yours. You’re breathless with excitement and awe, even now, when his strong grip clasps you and he pulls you forward and up. He’s so strong, so graceful, when he’s feeling like this.

 

* * *

 

 

On stage, Coma faces you, empty sockets peering deeper than any eyes could, and with you standing there on the front row of speakers uncertainly, feeling exposed by the lights and the hundreds of eyes raucously observing the stage (if not lost in their own revelry), Coma Squeezes your hand much as he did after you first met, and it reassures you. Doof begins to play again, picking up where he left off as smoothly as if the current of music was there whether he had an instrument or not.

You are still nowhere near fluent in his language, but even when you don’t know every word, the sound evokes feelings, like magic.

This is a joyous occasion, a celebration for the defeat of the last of the holdouts in Gas Town, and the subsequent overtaking by the New Order of the Citadel. A victory led by women, the new leaders, the wives, the milking mothers. No longer do you need to fear your gender being known, but you still feel the residual fear from before, of being exposed.

But Coma knows what to say. On his axe, his hands pluck and grind a harsh, ebullient melody. Each pound of the drums hits you in your core, and within seconds your every breath is dictated by that rhythmic pulse. Every note he hits sings in the hairs standing up on your arms. You feel invincible, as if he's filling you with his strength.

Despite standing in the middle of the crowded yard between the citadel’s towers, you suddenly feel like it’s just you and Coma on this stage as he plays as song for you. You recognize notes in it, similar to other tunes he’s conjured for you in the past, but the feeling is different this time. It’s harder, more urgent, full of need.

-Be with me- the Doof Warrior plays, repetitively, embellishing and going in tangents, only to come back to that message. You are already with him, you’ve claimed him as yours and he wants none but you. But as always with his “words” the context is everything. Coma wants more. He wants you. This would be no frantic groping in the dark of his room, desperate and sad and full of need to escape from the upheaval that came with the Fall. This is full of joy.

He leans in, body curling over his instrument, fingers a blur as he tears into the strings of his axe, and he is nothing but smiles. A thin string of drool joins the damp spot on the front of his red pajamas, and you carefully reach out and swipe your thumb over his bottom lip without getting in the way of his furiously strumming hand and the fingers sliding along the frets. He hits a deep, throbbing note, and takes your thumb into his mouth. His tongue swirls around the tip, and now he’s saying something else with his hands.

-Your skin and mine, are one. Be with me here.-

Something about how he says it sinks low and hot in your belly. You slip your thumb out of his mouth and chew on it, looking behind you uncertainly. The yard itself is poorly-lit, but a war boy perched atop the Doof wagon is moving a spotlight over the crowd and nursing a bottle of sour mash, so you can see that while many of the bodies dancing and thrashing together are not looking, there are eyes on the two of you and what is unfolding.

-Let them watch,- Doof plays. -Let them watch, let them watch, let them see that love is power.-

His language is poetry, though few can appreciate it. You know that if Ace isn’t elsewhere enjoying solitude, he would know what Doof is saying. He’s broadcasting his feelings for you for everyone to hear, and even if they don’t understand, they feel it.

You turn back to your war boy, and as if sensing you would, he lets you in under the guitar, holding it behind you and trapping you in the circle of his arms and the instrument. Your lips mash together, and while it’s awkward at first trying to find the right balance while he’s playing, you manage it. You wrap your arms around his neck and push your chest against his, and his hungry mouth devours yours, so eagerly that his lips mouth your cheeks and chin. It’s messy, and before long, you’re laughing because he’s not trying to be tidy. He’s grinning, and his longue tongue flicks yours, agile and long.

Now all his guitar is saying is yes yes yes and as if recognizing that talk is cheap, he lets go of it and swings it aside on its own tether so he can wrap his arms around you.

You slide your hand down between the two of you and, upon feeling how hard he is, start to rub him through his clothes. He gasps against your face in open-mouthed pleasure, and his hands both grab handfuls of your butt through your pants.

The drummers play on, and the beat gets heavy and hard, and maybe that’s why you feel so impatient. A quick glance over your shoulder shows that there are some naked bodies in the audience, and so many are watching you that you feel the rush of their eager attention.

This is victory. After being trained and raised to place their bodies like weapons in the hands of their warlords, giving yourself over to such a good and pure purpose as mutual affection and pleasure needs to be seen.

You let go of his dick and hurriedly start to work his zipper down the front, dragging your hand over his sinewy abs, hard and strong from the full-body fervor with which he creates music, and touch the hot shaft with your bare hand.

His face burrows into the corner between your neck and shoulder, tonguing your skin like it’s the sweetest fruit, biting hard enough that it sends jolts down your spine and makes you buck your hips into him.

His hands move to the front and open your button fly, and with a flash of heat for the awareness of the mass of people behind you, you let him unfasten the waistband. Heavy with your tools, they fall with little resistance. You step out of them, loose enough that your boots can stay on, and you use your own arousal to slick the head of his long cock. You didn't even know until that moment just how it was affecting you to be up there with him.

Gone is the complex melody of Coma’s voice, and all that's left is the primitive, relentlessly galloping beat of the six drummers, lost in their own art as they drive all that listen into a higher state of frenzy.

You tug on his cock and his hand slips between your legs, slicking along the slit, swirling calloused fingertips over your nub until you can feel the blood filling it and making it taut. It starts to feel so good that you falter in your attention to his organ, but he doesn't care. He pulls your arms back around his neck so you're hanging on him. He returns to stirring the forge fires in your belly.

Coma plays you like one of his instruments, and just as fluently as any of them. His hand is strong, and tireless, and with a muscular arm wrapped around your back, you start to fold into his strength. His fingertips pluck and strum and pull, as gently as he needs to be to make the music pour out of your mouth. Your noises are hoarse and off-key, but they are exactly what he wants, and his mouth spreads wide, uncovering his jagged, genuine smile.

It's a hot, still evening, and sweat has begun collecting in the pits of your knees, the back of your neck, under your breasts, and every place your skin is skidding against his.

Your thighs strain open, pleading wordlessly for him to take you closer to that edge, and your knees grow weak. You know Coma can't totally support his own weight, thanks to his bad leg, let alone both of you. But any concern is gone when he tugs your thigh up around his waist with his damp hand, crushing his hard shaft against your mound and belly. In the absence of his fingering, your heart lurches between your legs as if reaching for him.

He takes your weight onto him, and you both sink down on the thick bungee cable with his firm length trapped between you. You look down on his bare face, which can't seem to stop grinning. He loves this, you realize. He loves being on stage, having invisible eyes on him, and he is getting off on sharing it with you.

When your sweat-slicked bodies start to move, squeezing and sliding his cock between the two of you, he strains up and catches your lip in his teeth, gently tugging your mouth onto his.

Cradled on his lap, your mouths lick and gnash ravenously as the drumbeat only grows more frenetic, and the crowd more excited, whether they are watching you or not.

They are used to following Coma’s cues into battle, and when his wet, hungry mouth nips and scrapes down your neck, you throw your head back and soak in the atmosphere of sex and glee hanging in the still air, cheers and singing and laughter and loud calls from people rutting shamelessly in the open. It's surreal, and otherworldly. The drummers play on, and you arch your back, hanging on the unbreakable grip of his arm around your waist, and his mouth finds your breasts. He noses your shirt up, and his tongue curls around your breast, poking into the soft heft of it, and his lips pinch your nipple. He suckles at it like a teat, but without the expectation of anything except your pleasure. You reward him with a pleading moan, because every scrape of his teeth tightens the pressure of your oversensitive cunt, and grinding his dick against your belly isn't enough anymore.

So you chase his mouth down with yours and grope between you for his cock. It is dark red at the tip, and leaking. You swipe your thumb over the crease and the tiny hole, and his entire body jolts.

You hold it steady as you lift yourself up, and then you sink down onto it. Slowly, at first, but then he slams his hips upward, stabbing you to the core and you cry out.

Mouth wide, working constantly to lick his wet lips and teeth, like a starving dog before a decadent feast, Coma’s large hands grab your hips in a bruising grip.

He keeps you in place, pressing hard against your insides to the point of sweet pain. And when you start panting, inner muscles squeezed tight, he begins to fuck.

All you can do is hold on because when he gets started, there's nothing that will slow him. It didn't matter that he couldn't stand with you, Coma’s body is a well-tuned machine, muscles straining and unfaltering as he gunned it. You both try to kiss, but you're bouncing against him, clinging like a lancer on the back of a hot rod, and you give up doing anything but feeling the hot pistoning pressure build in your spine.

He nestles his face against your neck, feeling your voice with his mouth on your throat.

Around you the drumbeats throb and pulse, and Coma keeps pace, sucking in great, heaving breaths. The Citadel yard is awash with life and happiness for the first time in so long. It's as though the pumps have been released; all this pressure and fear and uncertainty has culminated in this long-awaited release…

He carries you over the edge with him, in concert, your joined bodies harmonizing like a perfect chord.

His hips slow down, and your insides convulse around his throbbing climax, and heat spills down your thighs. With him still inside you, a smooth languor fills you. His mouth sucks the sweat off your neck, and his pelvis continues to nudge until he is soft enough to slip out with all his cum slicking the way.

You laugh, as light as air, and he smiles. You start to untangle yourselves, but he can't seem to stop kissing you. It isn't until you playfully bat him away that he tucks himself back into his pajamas and lets you crawl off of him to find your pants.

War boys are still dancing and moshing to the endless drumbeat, throwing themselves against one another, lost in the primal rhythm. And as you tug your trouser legs back over your boots, you hear the first chords of a new guitar riff. Coma has seized his dangling guitar.

You're not fluent, but you understand enough to blush as he declares his feelings in a rising major key, trilling top notes and throbbing bass notes, progressions up the scale until…

The drums break, and his axe sings out to the open sky.

He says that you're only Valhalla he wants to find at the end of the road.

The drums pick him up again and you dance with him while the music carries you and all who listen to paradise.


End file.
